Call-sign Grizzly
by BruteWithABrain
Summary: With the ferocity of a grizzly and the hair of a lion, Samson Polyecho is accustomed to being feared. But how will he react when SHEILD's finest are put on his case and aren't the least bit intimidated? Is SHEILD ready to see what happens when you corner a Grizzly? Is Strike Team Delta ready?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't really know why I have to say this but I do not own Marvel or any of their characters. I own only the characters that are born in my imagination. **

**Hey guys/gals! Welcome to my very first Fanfic! I know I'm rather Cliche for making this story include my own O/C but nonetheless I hope you all enjoy it! Constructive criticism is welcomed but flames will be ignored. **

Target File #3663

Call-sign: Grizzly

Name: Samson Raion Polyecho

Height: 6'3"

Weight: 240 Pounds

Strength Rating (1-10): 10

Speed Rating (1-10): 7

Intelligence Rating (1-10): 9

Danger Level (1-10): 10

Agents Cleared for Engagement: Natasha Romanoff, Call-sign Black-widow

Clint Barton, Call-sign Hawkeye

Priority Level: Alpha

Director Fury sighed, staring down at the file with his one good eye. Samson Polyecho or "Grizzly" as he's called was the riskiest adversary that SHEILD has been faced with since Natasha Romanoff.

Fury smirked at the thought of the red-headed assassin. He was incredulous when Barton had brought her in, but he was damn glad that Clint's little experiment had panned out.

He's snapped from his thoughts when surveillance footage from several sightings of Samson started rolling. Samson Raion Polyecho was a hit man, and a damn good one at that. Polyecho specialized in extraction and Loud Ops. In other words, he could raise hell and leave a lasting impression. It wasn't hard to see why either. Samson had a mane of wildly curly brown hair that hung down to his upper back when it wasn't put back into a loose pony-tail. On top of that, he had red and black polynesian tattoos down both arms, his chest, and down his ribs. Plus he made even Dwayne the Rock Johnson look like a twig. 240 pounds of pure strength and aggression.

Fury flipped the video to one of the Grizzly in action. He could see where he had earned the name. Not only was he large and imposing like the bear, he fought like one too. His preferred weapons being a pair of custom brass knuckles. The right pair had the standard raised metal bumps over the knuckles but the left pair was equipped with a wicked looking set of sharpened, curved claws that were about two inches long.

The director stared intently at the screen, studying the target's movements as he did when he was an agent. Polyecho fought with his own style. It was a mix of Aikido, Judo, Pugilism, and straight up brawling. What made him the most dangerous was his scrappiness in a fight and creativity in his planning. Fury's eyes widen when he watches him execute his favorite move. Polyecho swung his clawed left fist, burying it into the ribs of the nearest security guard. He then cranked his wrist upwards, raising the unfortunate man up a few inches off the ground before crashing his right fist into the mans temple, forming a deep indentation in the man's skull. He then turns his wrist back, releasing the hooks from the deadman's ribcage and letting him fall to a heap on the ground.

Fury flips the tape again, watching as he fires two .50 caliber pistols, one in each hand, with near flawless aim. The large caliber bullets easily tearing apart the SUV he was firing at. With a deep sigh, Fury closes the video and flips through the pages held in his tablet, finally settling on the known background of the man they call Grizzly.

Background: Born to a migrant worker family, his father from Samoa and his mother from Japan. Both parents were shot and killed when Polyecho was 6 years old. Moved from boys homes until age 11. Doesn't resurface in any public record until age 15. Minor crimes (Theft, disorderly conduct, assault) First hired at age 16, making hits on minor gang and mafia leaders. Number of hits grew to the current tally of 37 at age 19.

Fury shakes his head and leans back in his chair. Only two assassins owned a tally higher than that after such a short amount of time. Hawkeye and Black-widow. That's when an idea lights up Fury's mind. To this point, SHIELD has had a remarkable record of turning criminals into some of the most potent agents in the world. So what was the worst that could happen if SHIELD added a third face to Strike Team Delta?

"Maria, get me Coulson." He says quickly over the intercom. The Director runs a hand over his bald head, thoughts running wild, analyzing the possible outcomes of the decision he was about to make. Could Strike Team Delta function with another member? How would Clint and Natasha react to a third member?

"You rang Director?" Coulson asks casually, walking in and sitting in the chair across from him.

"How much do you know about Samson Polyecho?" the Director asks, sliding a copy of Samson's file across the desk towards Coulson.

The younger man shrugs, picking up the file. "They call him the Grizzly, looks more like a lion with that hair though. He fights hard and dirty, but has a hard time keeping things quiet. Also can break out of almost any prison given enough time. Why?"

"He's been making waves over on the west coast. Hell's Angels, Mongols, and the American Yakuza are all now looking for a new leader thanks to him. And thats just his free-lance work. Ever heard of the 'Sons of Samoa' gang? Well he has been their number one weapon for about two and half years. He's been credited with about 37 contracted kills so far, and thats just what we know about…" Fury pauses and looks up at his long-time friend, "And I believe it would be in the best interest of SHIELD if we brought him in. pair him up with Strike Team Delta."

Coulson's eyes widen a fraction of an inch but he says nothing for a minute as he mulls things over. "What makes you think he would fit in with Natasha and Clint? It's not like either of them are necessarily team players. From the way his file looks, neither is this guy."

Fury shrugs and clasps his hands in his lap, "Nobody thought Barton would fit in when you first dragged him in. Nobody thought that Romanoff would become one of us when Barton brought her in. Polyecho would be an asset to our organization and you know it. All I'm telling you to do is observe him. If you see the same thing that you saw in Barton, we can green light a capture mission. If not, we will send in Barton to finish him before he becomes an even bigger problem for us."

Coulson stares back at his boss's good eye, debating in his mind whether or not this was a wise decision. "Alright sir. When do I ship out?" Phil finally breaks, leaning back in his chair.

"Your plane leaves tomorrow at 0500 hours. You're dismissed Agent Coulson." Fury smirks as Phil makes his way from his office. Polyecho better be worth it. For not only Fury's sake, but his own as well.

**Thanks for reading! Don't forget to click that review button! **

**ALERT: I'm currently looking for a beta-reader as well as anyone who can help me write Natasha's character. If you're interested, please PM me!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Once again, I do not own Marvel or any of its characters **

**Hello my lovely readers! I would like to thank BoomerCat and MoonBeamLily for ****reviewing! You guys are awesome! I wasn't planning on posting this chapter until tomorrow but i felt inspired and finished it early! Enjoy!**

Coulson tapped his thumbs anxiously on the steering wheel of the black Audi SHELD had him using while staking out Samson Polyecho. Honestly Coulson hated observing any agent, particularly ones as hostile as Polyecho, this close. Satellite imagery and blurry surveillance videos were much more appealing to him.

After what seems like hours, the unmistakeable hair of the one and only Grizzly walks out of the rickety house in one of the shadier neighborhoods of San Jose. For being a 6'3" behemoth of a man with wild hair and intricate tattoos, Samson was a very hard man to find. It had taken Coulson's team over a week of constant surveillance and research to finally track him down.

Phil waits patiently as the Grizzly stalks over to the Matte black, 1967 El Camino that sat parked on the street. Coulson waits for exactly seven seconds after the El Camino has disappeared around the corner to start after his mark.

He follows the old muscle car through the twists and turns of the back roads, making sure to keep a safe distance back. After a solid twenty minutes of driving, Samson's car pulls up to a red light. Doing his best to remain calm and remain inconspicuous, Coulson pulls up next to the El Camino in the adjacent lane, keeping his eyes fixed straight forward.

Samson eyes the black car suspiciously as it pulls up next to his beloved car, Delilah. That car had been following him since he left the safe-house. 'Safe-house my ass.' He thinks to himself. There's no way that Audi was from the hood, it was much too nice of a car.

Samson stares intently at the side of the man's head, trying to get a glimpse of his face. Every alarm in his head was screaming at him to get the hell out of there but Samson had to be sure. An idea pops into Polyecho's head and a dark smirk crosses his face. He pops the car into neutral and guns the 8 cylinder engine, sending a loud roar that sounded eerily similar to that pf the beast that sat in the drivers seat.

The man in the black Audi tenses but does not look over and Samson's fears are confirmed. The strange man that was following him was also trying too hard not to be noticed. When you're trying to hard to not be found out, natural reactions to unexpected events tend to disappear.

Without hesitation, the Grizzly raises one of the two .50 caliber that are always within arms reach and lets five rounds fly. Three were in the direction of the stranger's head and the other two dug their way through the engine block of the Audi. It was more of a warning than anything. Samson had purposefully fired all around the mans head but not directly at it. He saw no use in killing the man until he had proved him otherwise.

While the man's head was down, Samson flipped Delilah into drive and careened around the corner, smoke rising from the trail of black rubber that had been left on the blacktop. He needed to get out of town. Some way or another, he had been found and the odds were not good that this new organization coming after him had any sort of pleasant intentions.

Coulson bolts upright when the sound of screeching tires reaches his ears and he watches the old car speed away. He had seen all he needed to in order to make a decision. Phil sat calmly in his now torn up Audi, waiting for the police to arrive. It hadn't been the first time that Phil had been shot at, but it was the closest he had been to getting hit. Unfazed however, Coulson flashes his badge at the police when they finally do show up and they let him go with only minor protests.

Walking away from the now smoking car, Coulson pulls out his encrypted satellite phone and dials SHIELD's secure number. An automated voice comes over the speaker, asking for identification. "ID Code Papa-Charlie-Zulu-Hotel-Romeo-6-3-Yankee-Xray" Phil droned out. the line is silent for a moment before a series of clicks flow through and Fury's voice comes over the line.

"Coulson? What happened? You're not due to check in for another two days." Fury says in a flat voice. only someone who's known him as long as Coulson has can detect the concern in his voice. "No need. I've gathered all I need. We're going to need to bring in the hawk." Fury is silent for a while. "Are you sure?" His voice was grave, full of speculation. "Completely sir. The Grizzly is too unstable to take in. We need spies, not thugs sir.

Fury curses under his breath and clenches his fist. "Roger that agent. Good work. Exfil is en route now." The director slams the phone down and leans back in his chair. It seems that his little experiment had run its course. Fury tapped a few buttons on his tablet, ordering the dispatch of a jet to Coulson's area before opening his intercom.

"Get me Barton." he says gruffly, searching for a copy of Samson's file. Whatever had happened to Phil out there must've really been interesting. What the hell did he mean by too 'Unstable'?

Clint breathed deep, his muscles as taunt as the string of the bow he currently had at full draw. He could hold this position for hours on end if necessary. But in the normalcy of the shooting range, a few seconds would do. He looses the arrow and it flies straight and true, striking the bullseye of yet another target. He was after all, the man who never missed.

As he was knocking another arrow, Agent Barton's SHIELD issued phone started to go off. "What does Coulson want?" Natasha calls from the station next to his. Clint checks the ID on the message and sets down his bow. "Its Fury. I'll be back Nat, keep my stall warm." The archer calls over his shoulder as he strides out of the range. Natasha just rolls her eyes at his back. Of course he gets to go out on some super important mission while she's stuck here, training.

Barton reaches Fury's door and knocks swiftly. "Enter." Fury calls from behind the door. Clint smirks at his boss' characteristic lack of words. "What'd'ya got for me boss?" Clint asks, sitting across from the Director. One hard look from the director was enough to tell Barton that this was a more grave matter than first anticipated.

Fury slides the file across the desk to Clint so he can read it. "Your new target. Priority Alpha. The threat must be eliminated with extreme prejudice. " Fury crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, observing the archer. "With pleasure sir." Clint replies with his usual dead tone, picking up the file and walking from the room, not bothering to open it without his partner, regardless if she was coming along or not.

**Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well as the first. Stay tuned to see what happens when the Hawk meets the Grizzly! Don't forget to review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Samson and the plot. **

**Hello beautiful readers! I apologize if this chapter is a little dry for you guys, I just figured i should establish the background of Hawkeye's and Grizzly's relationship. Speaking of relationships, I figured i should throw a little Clintasha in there. **

**Special thank you to 4ever Zebby for reviewing ****last chapter! Enjoy!**

Clint Stared at the open file on the table before him. He still had a hard time accepting what he was looking at. "Alright Clint, for the tenth time. What the hell is going on." Natasha practically growls from beside him.

The picture in the file was a simple mugshot, but the person it was of is anything but simple. The fiery anger burned its way off the paper from the unforgettable hazel eyes of none other than Samson Polyecho.

"It's nothing Nat. I used to know this guy is all." Clint says quietly, his sharp eyes fixed on the furious ones that lie in the photo.

* * *

_Flashback _

_ The rain was pouring down heavily as a much younger Clint Barton lay beaten and bleeding in the mud, a large gash in his side from the Swordsman__'__s blade gushing burgundy blood into the watery soil. The two people he had trusted the most just betrayed him. Silent tears flowed down his cheeks, pain radiating from his head, ribs and right wrist. _

_ Suddenly, the young archer feels something tugging at his leg, dragging him through the mud to one of the many tents set up for the younger boys to sleep in. He is aware of pressure on his back and the back of his knees as he__'__s raised from the dirt floor and into an uncomfortable bunk. __"__You__'__ll be ok Hawkeye.__" __A voice says from above him. Clint opens his steely grey eyes and stares up at the green/brown pair above him. _

* * *

"He had been with us about a year at that point. I had seen him around some but I never really talked to him until that night. He was one of the kids that would just help set up and take down the tents. He didn't really have any talent but he saved me that night. Sewed my side shut, stopped the bleeding, and even set my wrist." Clint rolls his right wrist to add effect. Natasha looks to the tell-tale lump on the same wrist and makes the connection in her head that Samson had set the bone but not entirely correct and that caused the bone to grow deformed.

"I don't know why he saved me. But I didn't stick around to find out. I ran away the next morning while he was out doing his chores." Clint sighs as Natasha rubs his arm in silent comfort. Both assassins hated talking about their past so when they did, they made sure to be there for each other.

"And now you have to kill him." Natasha states bluntly. Clint nods silently, deep in his own thoughts. "I owe him a debt." Clint whispers with a small smile, quoting the infamous Black-widow. "You'll figure out what to do. You always do. In the mean time, why don't you come to bed." Natasha says in an alluring voice, kissing Clint just long enough to wet his appetite and walking off towards the room they now shared. "This woman will be the death of me." Clint says, shaking his head before following behind the beautiful assassin.

* * *

Samson bolts upright, breathing heavily, a thin sheet of sweat covering his forehead and bare chest. He runs a frustrated hand through his wild hair that was now slick against his forehead and the back of his neck. It was the same nightmare that had always haunted him. The one with the grizzly.

He swings his heavy legs over the side of the old cot he was sleeping on. The Yakuza safe-house that Samson was in was, luckily, uninhabited. But since it was used very little, there were few creature comforts. There was a sink with running water, a toilet, and a sparsely supplied fridge in the corner.

Looking around at the empty room did nothing but leave Samson stranded with his own thoughts. This nightmare refused to leave him alone. It was really more of a memory but it was terrible nonetheless.

* * *

_Flashback _

_ Samson was thirteen years old and now stood at 5'11" 200 pounds. His sudden growth spurt gave the owners of the circus a wicked idea of how to attract more customers. Samson was to be thrown into a 20' by 20' cage with an adult grizzly bear. Armed only with a small pocketknife, the rules were, whoever lived, made it out of the cage. _

_ Samson held the knife tight in his shaking hand as the bear circled its prey slowly, its black eyes bore into his own. It was like the bear knew he was there to kill it and a carnal kind of hatred was behind its eyes. _

_ The massive bear swung a paw out at the young boy's face, missing it by mere inches. Samson jumped out of the way so quickly that his still clumsy feet couldn't catch him, causing him to fall onto his side just feet fem the bear. Thinking quickly, young Samson rolled out of the way of another paw swing and held his knife high, anger rising in his chest. He would do what he had to in order to survive and if that meant killing a bear, then he was going to kill the fucking bear. _

_ Samson ducks under the next swing and dives towards the bear, screaming a stream of curses as he buries the short blade in the bears chest. But instead of slumping to the ground as he had intended, the bear lets out a deafening roar. His knife hadn't come close to puncturing the vital organs of the bear and now it was just more pissed off. _

_ In retaliation, the bear stands on its hind legs, sending Samson sprawling to te ground, his knife still in hand. The bear swipes out a colossal paw, its claws catching Samson across his ribs. A cry of pain erupts from his throat as the ragged wound seeps blood. But the bear isn't finished yet. The grizzly drops down and latches its jaws deep into Polyecho's left shoulder. With a yelp of pain through gritted teeth, Samson readjusts his right side and shoves the knife with all his might into where he assumes the jugular is on the bear. _

_ The knife hits home, bringing forth a flood of hot, sticky blood. Maybe it was the blood loss Samson was experiencing, but he could've sworn that when he looked into the black eyes of the fallen bear, he saw fear. He saw fear, confusion, anger and hatred. The Swordsman strolls up, opening the cage and pulling Samson up by his uninjured shoulder. "From this day forward, Sammy here will be known as the Grizzly!" He shouts. The last thing Samson hears before slipping into unconsciousness is the roar of the crowd, a crowd that was even more animalistic and savage than the beast he had just murdered. _

* * *

Samson shuddered at the memory. Although he was shameful and infinitely guilty over killing that bear, he had to move on. Now he wears the name of Grizzly with pride. The grizzly he murdered displayed the same fury that was in Samson's heart day-in and day-out. He was the living incarnation of that bear.

A noise from the attic above Samson rips him from his thoughts. His instincts telling him to fear the worst, he draws both his pistols, finger dancing dangerously over the trigger of the loaded weapons. "Come out and play you little bitch." Samson growls, standing cautiously and scanning the ceiling for movement. Someone was up there but whoever it was had the sense to stop moving around, preventing him from getting a clean shot. Little did Samson know, a pair of steel grey eyes stared back at him, shrouded by darkness, watching his every move carefully.

**Ch. 3 is in the books! I hope you enjoyed it and I apologize for the lack of action in this chapter. But rest assured, there will be plenty of that in the chapters to come. **

**Don't forget to review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Samson and the plot. **

**Hello all! You get to benefit from my insomnia with this chapter. Seeing as no one reviewed to my last chapter, none of you get virtual hugs. Just a friendly reminder, this is my first story so if you see something I'm doing wrong, or right for that matter, let me know so I can either stop or do more of that thing. ****  
**

**Anyways, enjoy the chapter!**

Clint stared intently at his mark through the small crack in the attic floor. The Grizzly's eyes scanned the ceiling swiftly, trying to locate the source of the noise. The imposing .50 caliber pistols swept left and right. Suddenly a shot rings out, sending a slug plowing through the beam about two feet to Clint's left. The Archer tenses his body, preparing to dodge a hail of bullets. Another shot rings out and a hole is ripped in the floor a few inches away from Clint.

Luckily, after the second shot, the Grizzly decided that enough was enough and started to hastily throw the few possessions he had into a black duffel bag. The Grizzly holsters the two pistols and slides his custom brass knuckles into his pockets. Among his other weapons, Clint spots two gnarly looking knives, a tomahawk, and what looked to be explosives. After all is squared away, Samson moves to the small kitchen area, taking out what looked like a can of gas or kerosene. 'Covering his tracks.' Clint thinks to himself as he watches the 19 year old circus kid turned assassin pour the flammable liquid throughout the house.

Clint begins to move from his perch, careful to avoid making any sound. Unnoticed, Clint moves out of the tiny window he had slipped into earlier that day and to his secondary perch behind the crest of the roof on the house next door.

The smell of smoke soon reaches Hawkeye's nose and he snaps out his collapsable bow, ready to take a shot. This wasn't the ideal place for a showdown but the neighborhood in a dreary, rain-soaked ghetto of Seattle was more or less abandoned since the local fishing wharf had closed down.

The Black El Camino roars to life and begins to roll down the street. Clint stands, raising his bow and drawing it back to full draw. Aiming the explosive tipped arrow at the dark shape moving away in the distance. He takes a deep breath, steadying his heartbeat before relaxing his hand, sending the arrow straight at his target.

* * *

Samson tosses the lit match into the small room, smirking a little as the room is engulfed in flames. Whoever that was in there watching him was fucked now. He tosses the heavy bag filled with his assorted weapons and clothes into the bed of his El Camino before heading off to the east. Some high up members of the Yakuza had contacted him about a new job so Samson had better make good time if he was going to be there in time to scope out the situation first.

A loud, metallic thud hits Samson's ears, causing him to look around to see what caused it. Then in a flash, an explosion rips through the front left of the muscle car, sending it in a roll onto its ceiling on the side of the road. The lack of airbags caused Samson to be jerked around violently, held in by his seat belt.

When the car finally stops rolling, Samson spits a mouthful of blood onto the ceiling of the car which was now below him. As the fuzziness cleared from his head, Samson's instincts kick in. Move to survive. A static target is a dead target. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Samson falls to the ground with a thud and a loud groan of pain. Everything hurt. He figured he had a nasty concussion, assorted cuts and scrapes, and probably some broken ribs.

With a long stream of Samoan expletives, Samson pulls himself through the shattered glass and onto the street, coughing up even more blood. Wiping his mouth, the Grizzly rises on shaky legs and stumbles his way over to the back of the car, hoping to find his bag of goodies before the fire that had started in the engine consumed the entire vehicle. He ducks his head down to look underneath the flipped bed of the truck and frowns deeply. The duffel bag had been shredded and tossed around. He manages to recover the knives but nothing else.

"Samson? Come on out Samson, maybe we can work this out." A vaguely familiar voice calls out. Samson just barely manages to jump and roll over the back of the car as an arrow strikes the area where his chest was less than a second ago. He grunts as he hits the ground hard on the other side of the car and draws his pistols. As his mind continued to clear, more and more anger filled his vision.

"You blew up my fucking car asshole!" He shouts, standing and firing at the dark shape approaching him. Samson ducks behind the burning husk of an El Camino just as an arrow whizzes by his head. This guy was good. And Samson was wounded. The odds weren't adding up to be in his favor, but when has that stopped him. The Grizzly decides to take up a new tactic and uses the smoke rising from the car to slip into the building behind him. The strange assailant had the advantage in the open but Samson could use his strength against whoever this was in the close up fighting that would take place in the building.

* * *

Clint swung around the corner of the burning car with his bow raised, expecting to find a near-death Samson, but instead finding a trail of blood leading to the office building that was adjoined to the warehouse that was on the other side of the street. "Shit." Clint mutters as he walks quietly over to the building. This was the last thing he wanted to happen. Getting into a close-quarters combat situation against the Grizzly. Sure Clint was faster but this guy had about 50 pounds on him and that wasn't dead weight. Every ounce of this guy was designed to cause pain.

Figuring he'd be better off with the element of surprise, clint slings his bow across his back and silently climbs up the side of the building, working his way into the vents. This is where Clint had the biggest advantage. Using the vents, he worked his way into the bowels of the building. Looking down, he see's Samson behind a small wall, wrapping a ripped piece of T-shirt around a nasty gash on his left knee, the two .50 caliber pistols lying on the floor besides him, positioned for quick access.

Formulating his plan, Clint moves to the next room over and noiselessly drops to the floor. He needed to separate Samson from those guns, then he could focus on taking him down close range. Clint grimaced at the thought of taking the life of someone who had saved his but Samson was on SHIELD's hit list for a reason.

Removing his Flash-bang arrow, Clint activates it, counts to five before throwing it around the corner and practically into the lap of the Grizzly. When the loud explosion goes off, Clint sprints around the corner, prepared for one of the toughest fights of his life.

* * *

Samson grit his teeth in pain as he tied the makeshift bandage over his knee where a piece of shrapnel had caught him. Just as he's reaching for his two pistols, he hears the tell tale sound of a grenade being tossed in his direction. "Fuck!" Samson yelps, starting to roll away from the grenade, but its too late. It goes off before he can cover his face.

White. All he can see is white and theres a deafening ringing in his ears as the effects of the Stun grenade are felt full force. Samson is vaguely aware of a body slamming into his own, toppling him over sideways. Although he was temporarily blind and deaf, the grizzly was still deadly when in a wrestling fight. Samson quickly throws his good leg around his attacker, pinning him to the ground while Samson forces his upper body up, dropping an elbow to where he could only assume his enemies solar plexus was. The rush of air that came from the mans lungs when his elbow hit home was certainly satisfying but he recovers quicker than expected and slams a fist into Samson's bloody knee. A hiss of pain escapes Samson's gritted teeth and both hands move to his wounded knee, giving Clint an opportunity to escape his grasp.

As Samson's vision and hearing slowly returned, he opens his eyes to find None other than Clint Barton standing above him, aiming both of Samson's pistols directly at his head. "Clint? Is that you?" Samson asks, squinting his eyes in confusion. Clint just smirks down at his old acquaintance, "How's it goin Sammy?"

**There you have it! Ch. 4 is now apart of history. I hope you enjoyed the ****little action sequence as well as the rest of the chapter. Don't forget to review in order to get not only virtual hugs, but a better story!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Samson and the plot**

**The search is over! I would like to extend a very special thanks to my new found Beta-reader: VBallet She is not only a talented writer but a great editor as well. Hopefully the quality of the story will be raised due to her ****awesomeness. **

**I would also like to send out virtual hugs to salwyn77 and 4ever Zebby for reviewing last chapter! You two are awesome as well! **

**I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a more actiony chapter so that should be fun right?**

Samson's eyes remained locked with the steel grey ones of the archer above him. "I thought you were fucking dead." Samson spits up at Clint. The older man just shrugs and takes a step forward, not noticing Samson's hand creeping behind his back.

"Shit happens. But now that you know I'm alive, it's time for you t-" Before Clint can finish his sentence, Samson whips his arm forward, sending one of the knives he had stashed in the back of his pants towards Clint. Agent Barton twists his body, narrowly avoiding the blade. But a fraction of a second after he threw the first one, Samson throws a second. The second knife was particularly nasty due to the serrations on the back of the blade. Clint found out how nasty that blade was when it embedded itself deep into the left side of his ribcage.

While Clint was distracted by the knife buried in his side, Samson was able to scramble up and out the front door, limping heavily on his wounded left knee. Hiding around the corner of the doorway, Polyecho slips his hands into his pockets and slides on his favorite accessories. He then removes his hands from his pockets, his knuckles adorned by the heavy, dull steel of his brass knuckles. Now it was a fight.

He listens carefully for Clint's footsteps to come around the corner. Samson anticipated that Hawkeye was thinking he had made a run for it and not prepared for a fight. Just as he thought, the heavy footfalls that could only belong to someone who was sprinting begin to approach the doorway. "One. Two. Three." Samson counts before bringing his right fist around in a deadly arch.

* * *

Clint's eyes widen as the large fist swings around the corner. His momentum from running made it impossible to completely dodge it but Barton does the best he can. Instead of striking him in the chest, the blow lands in the ribs just below his right arm. Although it was just a glancing blow, there was so much force in the punch, amplified even further by the brass knuckles, that the hit he sustained probably shattered at least two of his ribs and sent him flying head first into the side of the door jam.

Through the haze of the definite concussion that had been sustained, Clint could sense that he was being lifted high in the air. 'This can't be good.' He thinks to himself before feeling the rush of air go past him. The fall seems to last forever but he wasn't that lucky. With enough force to knock out the average man, Clint slams into the hard ground. Samson had picked him up above his head and thrown him about 10 feet down onto the concrete sidewalk.

Clint groaned and rolled over on the ground, trying to get his bearings. Suddenly, a burning pain in his arm causes Clint to hiss in pain. The Grizzly easily flips Clint over, his clawed fist drawing blood from the archer's arm. "This is your one mercy Barton. Leave me the fuck alone." Samson growls, stomping hard on Clint's stomach before limping away slowly.

* * *

Samson shakes his head in disgust at the actions of Clint Barton, his former friend. He had looked up to Clint while in the circus. He had wanted to be just like him. He wanted to be that tough, that good to other people, but most of all, that skilled at something. The only reason Samson let him live is the memory of all the beatings Clint had taken for him back in the circus.

Behind him, Samson hears the familiar thwack of an arrow being loosed from its bow. Before he can dodge the shot, the arrow impales itself deep in Samson's left calf. Walking on that leg was now all but impossible but he had to try. As Samson is pulling himself from the ground, another arrow finds its mark and slices into the back of the Grizzly's freakishly large shoulder blade.

With a grunt of pain, Samson drops to a knee, pulling the first arrow out his leg roughly. He curses under his breath and stands again, this time slightly crouched in an attempt to hide from the withering fire coming from Clint's bow. Samson starts to run as best he can to cover across the street but about halfway there, Clint fires a bolo arrow at the Grizzly, wrapping his legs in a thick rope.

"Shit, shit, shit." Mumbled Samson as he furiously pulled at the ropes that were hopelessly tangled around his ankles. "Put your fucking hands up." Clint says in a deadly calm voice, raising his bow with an arrow aimed directly at Samson's throat.

* * *

"Kefe" Samson growled out in a language that Clint could only assume was Samoan. The notorious hit man gathered blood in his mouth and promptly spit the mouthful of blood onto Clint's boot. Agent Barton swung down his bow across Samson's jaw, sending his head back to the floor. "Listen to me Sammy. This doesn't have to end with you lying dead in the street." Clint says in an even voice, keeping his arrow trained on Samson's heart.

"Oh yeah? It could also end with you dead on the street. How about that?" Samson spits up at Clint, earning him another whack across the jaw. "Sam, you're good at what you do. SHIELD could use you. Plus, even if you get away this time, we will come after you again. That Yakuza big-wig you took out a few months ago was a SHIELD deep-cover agent. You're in the headlines for all the wrong reasons right now and this is your one way out."

Samson just glares up at Clint, squinting his eyes suspiciously, "Why the hell should I trust you? You bailed on me after I saved your damn life. You know what happened after you left? I got blamed for your disappearance. They threw me in a cage with a FUCKING BEAR. Why the fuck would I trust you when you did that to me?" Samson asks harshly, his hazel eyes scrutinizing Clint's face.

Clint just shrugs, "You shouldn't. I wouldn't trust me if I were you. But just think. If I really wanted you dead, you would've had an arrow through your heart before you even knew I was there. Samson seems to ponder this before finally speaking, his voice growing weak from blood-loss. "Fuck it. Sign me up. On the condition that you patch up the holes you put in me first." Samson smirks at his own joke, causing Clint to roll his eyes. 'Some things never change' he thinks to himself.

* * *

Not long after Clint had radioed in his coordinates for an evac, the world began spinning for Samson, the pool of blood around him steadily growing larger. "I swear to God Barton if you make me bleed out before getting my first paycheck I'm going to haunt the shit out of you." Samson glares at his old friend. Using humor and sarcasm to cover up his own uncertainty was nothing new to Samson and he was using his entire repertoire tonight as the edges of his vision began to go fuzzy. "Fuck Clint… I'm seein' the light." Samson slurs out. Just before he slips into unconsciousness, he can faintly hear the sound of chopper blades approaching from the south. The last sight Samson sees is the glaring face of the stranger from the black Audi hanging out of the side of the helicopter.

**Aaaaaaand thats how the cookie crumbles for now. I hope you all thoroughly enjoyed yourselves while reading and I will update as soon as ****possible! Don't forget to review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Samson and the plot **

**Hello my awesome readers! I apologize for the delay in updates but I'm back!**

**A special shoutout to Boomercat for leaving me a great review. Hopefully you're still reading my story, I try to explain a little more in this chapter what happened when Clint didn't realize Samson was going for the knife. But I do realize that was a bit out of character for Clint and I do apologize for that.**

**As usual, thank you to my awesome Beta, VBallet! **

**Enjoy the chapter!**

Slowly, Samson climbed out of the black pit of unconsciousness and back into the world of the living. The more aware Samson became, the more aware he becomes of the pain radiating from nearly every part of his body. Samson cracks open his eyes but promptly screws them shut again when the blinding light of the plain white hospital room he is in floods his vision. He tries to lift his hand to cover his closed eyelids but finds that both his arms and legs had been restrained with thick leather shackles.

With a loud groan, Samson pulls as hard as his sedated muscles could at the restraints but they do nothing more than make the bed creak. "Having a little trouble there Mr. Polyecho?" A calm yet smug voice chimes in from beside him.

Samson squints his eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the room. He see's a man probably in his early forties, wearing a suit and tie. It was the same man from the black Audi. "Who the fuck are you?" hisses Samson. Waking up in a strange place with bandages wrapped around various parts of your body and being restrained was not the most peaceful environment to meet someone new in.

"Clint would be here, but seeing as that knife you threw at him perforated his intestines and liver, he is still recovering. I'm Agent Coulson. I will be handling your case from this point forward." Samson eyed the stranger coldly.

"Where am I? And what the hell do you mean 'my case'? Barton offered me a job, not a court hearing." he growls out, glaring harshly and tugging at his restraints once again.

"You are in a secure SHIELD hospital and that has yet to be determined. Agent Barton went against direct orders by bringing you back alive. So in the mean time, I will observe you, evaluate you, and determine if you belong here with SHIELD." Coulson had a smug edge to his voice, as if he was taking revenge for when Samson had shot at him in their first encounter.

"So tell me. How does a simple street thug like you almost kill one of the best agents I have ever seen?" Coulson asks, knowing full well that his jab at Samson's background will not go unnoticed. Samson just shrugs and smirks at Coulson.

"If he's the best you have, you guys are in some deep shit. He was monologuing. Probably thought I was down for the count."

Coulson just stares at Samson with scrutinizing eyes. "Who trained you?" Samson pauses, almost debating whether or not to say anything. "This is all going into your evaluation so if you don't cooperate, you can forget about that offer. You won't even get a hearing. Just straight to the front of death row." Samson's eyes snap up to Coulson's, a defiant look on his face.

After a moment, Samson sighs and shakes his head. "ISIS was most of the technical training. The Yakuza got a hold of me when I was 16 but the three years before that I was with ISIS." Coulson's eyes widen a fraction of an inch at the mention of ISIS. ISIS was essentially the SHIELD for Southeast Asia. The reason the two organizations did not get along too well was the fact that the entire leadership of ISIS was incredibly corrupt, hiring out its forces to the highest bidder.

"So where were you the two years off the record? Your file is blank from age 11 to 13 at this point." Samson just chuckles darkly and looks up at Coulson with a twisted look of amusement in his eyes.

"The Circus."

* * *

Clint woke not long after Samson. He quickly tries to sit up to assess the situation but the pressure on his side from the stitches warned him not to. "You've been out for almost 30 hours," said a voice as soft as silk but as threatening as the spider she was named after. "Yeah? That's more sleep than I get in a month." Clint deadpans. Of course Natasha would be at his bed side. She always was. But as soon as he woke up, she turns her anger on him. She always got mad when he scares her.

"What the hell happened out there? How did some gangster kick your ass like this?" Natasha glares, sitting on the bedside next to him, stroking his face softly in a relatively uncommon public display of affection.

"I got careless. He was pulling himself away from me so I thought nothing of his hand being behind his back. Plus I was a little short on oxygen at the time. The solar plexus is a vulnerable point you know." Clint skillfully leaves out the part about him monologuing.

Natasha raises an eyebrow but does not press the issue further. "Fury's not too pleased with you. Neither is Coulson. I don't think they expected you to pull that same stunt twice in the same lifetime."

Clint just shrugs again, "I owed him debt." He knows Natasha understood. Out of anyone he knew, she understood owing someone a debt. Whether or not that was a good thing was yet to be decided.

* * *

Coulson led a limping Samson down a long white hallway. It had only been a week since his capture but Samson was recovering well and was obviously already walking despite the wounds to his knee and calf. His arm was still in a sling from the arrow he took to the shoulder, but for the most part, he was in one piece.

The pair finally reached a tall black door at the end of the hallway. With a swift knock from Coulson, a loud yet bored sounding voice from the other side of the door beckons them in. "Coulson, I see you've brought Mr. Polyecho." The man behind the desk doesn't look up from the pile of papers in his hands. Coulson pushes Samson into the room and down into the chair across from him.

"I'll be right outside Director Fury." With a wave of his hand, the man with the eye patch sends Coulson from the room.

The door closes behind him and the two men are left alone. Finally Director Fury looks up from his papers, an annoyed expression on his face. "I can't seem to figure you out Polyecho. One minute I see you as a potential recruit and the next, you're trying to gun down one of the best handlers in the game. Then you nearly kill a very important asset to SHIELD, but then that same asset brings you back alive, claiming you should be given a position here."

When the man doesn't continue, Samson begins talking. "Well I believe that if you give me the chance, I'll be one of the best decisions you've ever made." Samson says confidently. His tone was reserved and respectful but still held the defiant edge of someone who had lived their life as an underdog.

Fury leans forward in his chair and squints his good eye suspiciously at the young man sitting in front of him. "What can you possibly bring to the table that I don't already have?" The director knew the answer of course, but he was not about to let the kid gain any sort of cockiness. He would get enough of that by spending time with Barton.

"Well sir, you won't find anyone better suited for eliminations. Not assassinations. Eliminations. If you want a message to be sent and not forgotten, you send me. If you want to get one of your people out of hell I will march straight through its gates and bring them back. You can try and have me executed but I can guarantee that I will be gone by morning. Bottom line sir, It would be better for you to have a grizzly on your side than the other." Samson finishes and looks closely at the Director's face.

Samson wanted this. He wanted a chance to use his skills for something other than petty gang wars over drugs or money. He wanted to honor the parents that were stolen from him at such a young age.

"Well Mr. Polyecho, I will give you a chance and only a chance. No promises. In a month, after you're healed more, you will attempt to make it through our screening process with a batch of new recruits. Until that time you will be held in a maximum security cell with 24/7 watch. If you make it through the screenings, You will become a level 1 agent of SHIELD." Samson just grinned at the Director, finally showing some real emotion. He had no doubt in the world that he would make it. "Thank you sir."

**There you have it! As I'm sure some of you have noticed there are tiny showings of Clintasha throughout this story and there will continue to be only minor flashes. As of this moment, Clintasha is the only pairing I have planned but if something else would tickle your fancy feel free to let me know! **

**Don't forget to review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I only own the non marvel characters and the plot. **

**Greetings all! I'm so sorry for updating so slow. Between writers block and getting ready to head off to college, this chapter took a while to develop. But as a reward, it's the longest chapter to date!**

**Special shout outs to 4ever Zebby and SlippedHalo8186 for reviewing! You guys are great!**

**And as usual, thank you to my awesome beta reader, VBallet! Enjoy the chapter!**

So far, captivity in the SHIELD compound was the most comfortable Samson has been in years. The cot in his cell was a far better bed than he's had since he was on missions with ISIS and even then, he didn't have the steady supply of nutritious food that he now had.

That, combined with unlimited access to a restricted training room to help him recover from his injuries has made Samson a fairly happy camper. Thanks to the high protein diet and 10 hour days in the gym, Samson was now more grizzly-like than ever. Now measuring 6'4" and weighing in at 270 pounds. The training room he was allowed to use had a limited number of weights totaling 600 pounds and he had used every single one of them, both for bench press and for squats. The medical and security staff that were always in the room with him were astonished at the sheer brute strength that was on display.

In only one month, Samson had gained 30 pounds and grown an inch. And now it was time to see if he had what it takes to become an agent of SHIELD. Donning the black tank-top and grey basketball shorts provided for him by SHIELD, Samson lumbered into the main gym where the new recruits were already milling around, waiting for the testing to begin.

As soon as the doors closed noisily behind him, all conversation that was going on in the room ceased and all eyes turned to Samson. The other recruits took in the sight. He did not look at all like a SHIELD recruit, with his wild curly hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and most of his intricate red and black tattoos showing.

"See ya later Jerry." Samson said with a smirk as the security guard assigned to him for the day turned and walked from the room. Samson too turned and began walking towards the crowd, shooting glares at those who stared and pushing past those who didn't move. But he paused when one brave soul decided to push back. "Watch where you're going, bitch," the man growls out.

Sizing him up, Samson just smirks at him. The man, probably about 24, stood at about 6'2" and probably weighed about 220. "Yeah, ok. I'll be sure to do that." Samson replies dryly before forcefully shouldering past him. He seemed like the classic high school bully and taking him down during sparring would definitely be rewarding.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen. I'm Agent Hill. I will be your evaluator for the physical portion of today's testing. There will be three parts total. Physical, mental, and medical. Our first test will be a strength test." Samson just smirks at the dark haired woman's words. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Agent Hill lines up all of the recruits under pull-up bars, adjusting them all according to the height of the recruit. "Just because this will get boring after a while, we will have a little competition. Last man standing wins. Drop down, do a push-up, jump up to the bar, do a chin-up, and repeat. Go!" she barks. Several evaluators stand in front of the recruits, counting how many burpees each was doing.

Soon enough, Samson fell into a rhythm. Drop, push, jump, pull, repeat. The familiar burn that soon set in throughout Samson's body was both familiar and welcome. Eventually only two remained. The high school bully and Samson. The two would do their exercises in time with each other, sweat pouring down both of their bodies. "Alright that's enough! 15 minutes is long enough!" Agent Hill shouts.

Samson nods and drops down from the pull-up bar. The bully guy however sees Samson stop and quickly does one more, smirking smugly over at him. "Well well well, looks like big man here can't keep up." He says and turns to his little group of douchebags, laughing and fist bumping his buddies. Samson just raises an eyebrow and represses the urge to knock the cocky little bastard out right now.

"Onto the next exercise. Each one of you will put enough weight on the bar to equal twice your body weight. Three squats are the minimum, bonus points will be awarded for each additional rep. Good luck and don't get hurt." Agent Hill nods quickly at the group and points to the line of weight cages at the back of the room. Samson walks over to the bar and starts to add the proper weight. Five 45 pound plates, two 10 pound plates, and a 2.5 pound plate on each side plus the 45 pound bar equals the required 540 pounds.

As Samson steps underneath the bar, knees slightly bent, he fills his thoughts with the rage he had been feeling for years. Rage against the Swordsman, rage against his ISIS trainers, against the Yakuza, and most of all, himself. He used the fire of anger to push his muscles farther than most, willing his body to take control as Samson pushed the mammoth weight from its rack, groaning loudly in the process.

The bar holds a slight bend in protest to the amount of weight being put on it. The veins in Samson's neck are bulging as he bends his knees slowly to 90 degrees before pushing his body back to standing. The burn that had settled across his muscles was becoming more and more comfortable as he repeated the process again and again. Finally, after the tenth rep, Samson feels his legs begin to shake, failure is imminent. Before he collapsed to a heap on the ground, Samson takes a step forward, bringing the weight back to its rack with a loud crash.

"Agent Hill? I have a question." The bully says, raising his hand. "Yes Samuels?" Agent Hill raises an eyebrow questioningly at him. "Who let the gangster in here? I thought you were looking for the best of the best, not thugs on steroids." Samuels looks smugly over at Samson and the rest of the recruits take a step back, seeing his fists begin to clench. "You got a problem with me pretty boy?" Samson asks threateningly, taking a step towards Samuels. "Stand down Polyecho." Agent Hill says sternly, walking between the two. She turns to Samuels and leans in slightly. "I'd watch my tongue if I were you, recruit. Polyecho is here on specific orders from Fury. He has more credited kills than you probably ever will."

Samson gives Agent Hill an appreciative look before she steps back and addresses the group. "Next is a simple mile run. only those who run under seven minutes will be allowed to continue." She leads the group to the indoor track that borders the room and lines all the recruits up. "Three, two, one, go." She says in a bored tone of voice, sending all the young men and women running down the track.

This was definitely Samson's weakest area but he was still better than most. The Five laps pass fairly quickly, The group being led by a short, brown haired woman whose name badge said 'Smith,' followed closely by Samuels, then by Samson. All three finish between four and six minutes. "Smith, 4:34. Samuels, 4:49. Polyecho, 5:22" Hill calls out as each one crosses the finish line.

Samson walks over to the water fountain, breathing heavily as he leans down and begins to drink. "Where'd you get those?" a petite voice asks from behind him. Samson straightens and turns around to find the brown haired girl from the front of the runners looking up at him curiously. "The tattoos?" Samson asks confusedly. The woman in front of him rolls her eyes and shakes her eyes. "The scars under the tattoos. You have two circular scars under your tattoos on your shoulder blade. What are they from?" She asks, crossing her arms.

Honestly Samson was surprised this chick wasn't scared off by his massive frame as most people are. "That's for me to know and you to forget about." He says shortly, walking away from her. Samson's tattoos were there for a reason, to cover his scars. Many of which were difficult to discuss.

_Flashback _

_Men speaking Vietnamese scurried around the 15 year old Samson, tying him tightly to the ground before the drugs wore off. "What's going on?" Samson asks groggily. "Your punishment." One says simply before the rest back away. Samson looks down towards his feet and see's his boss, Mr. Ngata, standing with a scowl on his face. "You failed your mission Samson." The older man says angrily, pacing back and forth. _

_"I-It wasn't my fault sir. I was told the target would be alone in the apartment! What was I supposed to do? Torture and kill his family as well?" Samson pleads, tears forming at his eyes. He had seen many men killed in the same way he was about to be. "Follow your orders and eliminate the target, then burn the building down like you were supposed to! Now there are loose ends!" Mr. Ngata shouts before pinching the bridge of his nose impatiently. _

_"You are young Samson, so I will take mercy on you. The bamboo is under your shoulders. You will live." Ngata says before walking away briskly, leaving Samson all alone. This was the most popular form of torture and execution in Southeast Asia. Samson had performed it many times while extracting information from targets. _

_The premise was simple. Tie the victim to the ground and plant bamboo underneath their vital organs. Over the course of four days, the bamboo will grow straight up, impaling the victim in slow motion. _

_After only one day, the bamboo was already pushing uncomfortably into Samson's shoulders. By the next day, the ruthless plant had pierced the skin, eliciting a cry of pain from the young teenager. In total, it takes five agonizing days for the bamboo to punch through the other side of Samson's shoulder. Twice each day, two men would come and force Samson to eat some rice and drink some water to keep him alive. The only relief Samson got was when the pain was too much and he passed out for a few minutes._

_Mr. Ngata returned on the fifth day, inspecting the yellow and red stained bamboo. "You have two weeks to heal. Your new mission is to eliminate the loose ends." He says before motioning the men forward, roughly pulling Samson off the bamboo and dragging him to the medical building. "Yes sir," was all Samson could manage._

Samson shivers at the memory, and the scars on his shoulders ached at the mention of the incident. 'Who the hell did she think she was? Scars are a personal story of a person's life, who doesn't know that?' Samson thinks to himself. He shakes his head and strides back over to where Agent Hill was standing with the other recruits. "Alright. Your final physical evaluation will be hand to hand combat. Gloves and mouthpieces are required. To keep up with the competitive nature, this will be tournament style. First up, Smith and Flores."

The two contestants step up into the ring and begin circling each other. Samson pays them little attention. His focus was on Samuels. He hoped desperately that he got to put that little shit in his place. "Samuels, Clark. You two are up." Hill calls out, writing something down on her clipboard. Damn. Next time then.

Samson watches the two men circle each other, their fists up and ready to fight. Clark was shorter than Samuels, probably about 5'10" and 200 pounds, but Clark was stockier. More compact muscles and a lower center of gravity could work in his favor. Samson crosses his massive arms over his chest as he watches the fight begin.

Studying Samuels' fighting style would help Samson beat him even quicker. For the most part, Samuels was the aggressor. Using roundhouse kicks and other moves that were more about looking cool than actually winning the fight. Samson smirks whenever Clark would land a blow on Samuels. He had to hand it to Clark, he was a scrappy one. But inevitably, Samuels lands a blow that sends Clark sprawling to the floor. Hill blows a whistle, signaling the end of the fight.

As he exits the ring, Samuels gives Samson a cocky smile, "You're next, big guy." Samson's blood boils at his words. "Polyecho, Ontiveros. You two are next." Samson pulls on the padded gloves and takes his mouthpiece from the table, clenching his teeth securely on it. Ontiveros seemed like a decent enough guy, so this wasn't going to be as fun as taking down Samuels.

When the two men approach each other, Samson offers up his gloves as a show of sportsmanship. Ontiveros touches his gloves quickly to Samson's and with a nod of appreciation, the fight is on. Ontiveros swings first, a wild haymaker towards Samson's head. Samson side-steps the blow easily and raises his arms around the arm as it swings around. Using the momentum from the punch, Samson twists Ontiveros' arm around to a locked position, causing his opponent to bend over forward to ease the pressure on his elbow.

Samson takes advantage of his position and with his back to Ontiveros' side, steps forward, bends his knees, sticks his hips back, and pulls down on the arm that was locked out on his shoulder. Without much force being applied, Ontiveros flips over Samson's back and onto the mat with a crash. Samson raises his fist back, ready to bring down a heavy fist into Ontiveros' stomach, but the blare of Hill's whistle stops him.

Samson quickly straightens up and offers a hand to help up his opponent. "You ok?" Samson asks. Ontiveros takes his hand and gives him a shake of his head. "I've never had my ass kicked that fast. You're good, man." Samson just smiles back as the two walk off the mat. "Years of practice," Samson says ironically. No one except Hill knew about his past, and he was sure that even she didn't know the whole story. "I'll beat your ass someday Polyecho."

Samson just smirks and offers Ontiveros his hand to shake. "Call me Samson. And I have a feeling that won't be happening anytime soon."

Ontiveros takes Samson's hand and shakes it firmly. "Just call me Zeus." Zeus smiles before going to sit in the eliminated group with Flores. 'So this is what it's like to make a semi-normal friend,' Samson smirks to himself before turning back to the ring, waiting for his next turn to fight.

**Woo! 7 chapters! I apologize if this chapter got dry in places or was confusing at times. Samson's history is being revealed piece by piece! Stay tuned and don't forget to review. **

**P.S. In case any of you were wondering, young men tend to grow until they're about 21 so its not out of the ordinary that 19 year old Samson would grow like that. Also, the bamboo torture is actually a real thing... Nasty stuff.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I own only OC's and the plot **

**Hello all! So my life has been pretty hectic as of late and for that I sincerely apologize. I may not be able to update for a while after this (I'm moving into my college dorm tomorrow) so I wanted to give you all something before I go. **

**Special shout outs to carolzocas and 4ever Zebby for reviewing! You two rock! **

**And as always, thank you oh so much to my awesome beta reader, VBallet!**

**It's a bit shorter than usual but it's something! enjoy!**

Natasha leans against the railing on the third floor, looking out over the new recruits, keeping a particular eye on the one Clint had brought back. He sure looked the part of a grizzly, and Natasha's way of working was not necessarily similar to that of lumbering brutes.

"He's good, huh?" Clint smirks from beside her.

"It was one fight. Against a new recruit. Who was smaller and slower than him. I wouldn't necessarily say that he's good quite yet," Natasha replies dryly. This next guy looked like a better match. He was still smaller than Samson but he moved much quicker. "Five bucks says Samuels wins this one." Natasha offers, a sly smile playing at her lips.

"Deal." Clint says, crossing his arms over his chest as the two combatants enter the ring.

"Samuels, Polyecho. Get up here." Hill says as the last two fighters make their way off of the platform. Samson ducks under the rope and stands facing his foe. Samuels gives him a cocky smile, tightening his glove.

"Lets keep this clean." Samuels says through his mouthpiece, walking to the middle of the ring and offering his hands for the same ritual Samson had done with Zeus.

Samson eyes him suspiciously but walks to the middle and moves to touch gloves with Samuels. Just as the gloves are about to make contact, Samuels brings his right fist up and connects it with Samson's jaw.

Samson's head snaps to the side as he automatically takes a step back away from the blow. Out of instinct and training, he raises his arms to shield his face from any assaults that come while he recovers. Almost as soon as his fist connected, Samuels leapt forward into a superman punch, landing one square into Samson's chest.

Samson reels again from the hit, the air rushing from his lungs. 'Gotta get my shit together,' he scolds himself. Suddenly, a weight slams into Samson's midsection. Samuels had driven his shoulder into Polyecho's stomach, tackling him to the ground. Unbeknownst to him, this is where Samson thrived.

Samson smirks to himself and wraps his legs around Samuels' ribs, transitioning easily into the full guard position. As Samson's head cleared from the first hit, he fought better and better. He easily blocked the onslaught of punches Samuels was sending his way and even started to throw his own.

Clint frowned when Samson got taken down early. "What'd I tell you?" Natasha remarks smugly. "Just watch." Clint replies bitterly. He watches as Samson starts to settle into his fighting rhythm, and smirks triumphantly when Samson rolls the over on top of Samuels. "Your boy's in trouble now," Clint chuckles and leans forward onto the railing, becoming more and more invested in this fight.

Samson began to rain down blow after blow to Samuels' head and midsection. Clint knew what those fists felt like so he had some empathy for the other man in the ring. A few times, Samuels comically tried bucking the 270 pound Samoan/Japanese hit man off of him. Of course, he was unsuccessful.

At some point, Samuels had managed to dodge one of Samson's crushing fists and trap his arm against his torso. Samuels then wrapped his arm underneath and around Samson's other arm, pinning both against his body, preventing any further punches.

Samson tugs his arm experimentally to try and free it from Samuels' grip but soon finds that his hands refused to budge from the man's torso. Smirking, Samson brought his feet underneath him. With a grunt, he lifted with his legs, bringing Samuels' off the ground and over six feet into the air. Held up only by his grip on Samson's arms, Samuels' eyes grew wide. His mind was hit with the sudden sensation of weightlessness. With a loud roar of effort, Samson raised his arms another few inches before throwing himself forward towards the ground.

A colossal crash resonates throughout the gym when Samuels' body makes contact with the mat. The man's grip instantly loosens, the shock of so much force spreading through his body too much to remain conscious. Samson rips his arms free and begins wailing on the man below him. Blow after blow landing on his face. Blood begins to flow down Samuels' face and Samson is too caught up in his own rage to notice the blaring of Hill's whistle.

The guard that was assigned to Samson rushes into the room, jumps up into the ring and presses the electrical tip of his stun gun to the back of Samson's neck. Samson freezes as the electricity coursing through his body locks every muscle into place. Pain explodes from everywhere, his muscles convulsing against his will. Somehow though, he remains upright long enough for the guard to pull his body off of Samuels' and out of the ring.

"You ask and you shall receive, Samuels!" Samson shouts as the guard plunges a needle full of horse tranquilizer into Samson's neck to cease the struggling. Samson fights for a few more seconds, spewing expletives in every direction as the powerful drugs course through his system.

Before he slips into unconsciousness, Samson tries to observe the hallways he's being dragged down, but the plain white walls begin to blur together with the fluorescent lighting, making it impossible to focus on anything. The last thing that passes in front of Samson's eyes before they roll back into his head is what appears to be an operating room.

**What's gonna happen next?! Is this a sinister SHIELD plot? Or a routine medical examination? Stay tuned to find out! Don't forget to review! **

**P.S. I am not giving up on this story! not by a long shot. I'll be adjusting to college life over the next week or two so if you don't hear from me, that's why! I could never abandon my beautiful readers!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I own only the plot and my OC's **

**Hello people of the internet! If you are still reading at this point I applaud your dedication. My first day of classes is now in the books and I'm somehow still ****alive. **

**Special thanks to 4ever Zebby and carolzocas for reviewing! You two are awesome!**

**And as usual, thank you to my awesome beta reader, Vballet! You rock!**

"He fights with no form. None. He doesn't stick to any one style. He's all over the place," Coulson laments to his boss as the two men review the footage of Samson's fight with recruit Mark Samuels. "But he wins." Fury remarks dryly, staring at the screen intently. "Show me his medical work-up."

Coulson brings a file from his suitcase and hands it to Fury. "He's a mess. Scar tissue covers the majority of his upper body and the cartilage in his knees is screwed. Forget fighting, I'm surprised he can still move." Fury's eyes scan down the page, taking in all of the readings and test results.

"Anything stand out to the medical staff?" Fury asked, tossing aside the file. Coulson shrugs and leans back against the wall. "One test came back as an anomaly but they're redoing it. The test results stated that his muscle efficiency was over 60%. The medical team thinks there was a malfunction with the equipment, so they took a second sample and are testing it now."

Fury smirks at Coulson and shakes his head. "In a world filled with extraordinary individuals, I've learned to disregard 'anomalies' in testing." Fury says flatly. As if on cue, Fury's tablet makes a noise, indicating that a new file had been updated. He picks up the tablet and swipes through the different screens until landing on the updated test results. "How often does the equipment malfunction?" Fury asks, sliding his tablet across the table for Coulson to see. Coulson stared.

"This can't be right though. The average human has an efficiency of 18-20 percent. Extreme athletes are about 25%. Hell, Natasha and Clint are in the thirties. But its impossible to have 63%… isn't it?" Coulson's arguments begin to lose steam. "Evidently not. This explains why he's so strong though. Once he's out of recovery, find him and Barton a mission. We'll wait to pair him with Natasha for now." Fury says, picking up his tablet and scanning more screens, signifying the end of Coulson's visit.

"Yes sir."

* * *

"Fuck you! You fucked up my tattoos you dick! Do you know how much money these cost me?!" Samson spat at the doctor who was slowly shrinking behind Agent Barton. Barton stood with an amused look on his face. "That was pretty messed up doc." Clint points out with a shrug. Samson strains against the heavy leather shackles that had been holding him to the bed. When the railing the shackles are attached to begin to creak from the force, the poor doctor fleed the room.

"If you're so concerned about them getting marked up, why get tattoos?" Clint asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed. Samson lets out a frustrated sigh and lays back onto the bed. "I could care less if they get marked up in a fight. Thats half the reason they're there. It's kinda like I'm daring whoever it is I'm fighting to try and mess them up. Nine times out of ten, they fail."

"When did you get them?" Clint goes on. He knew that the two were going to be paired together on a mission soon so he wanted to get a level of familiarity again. "The tribals I got on assignment in Samoa. The foo dogs on my back I got about a year ago in LA." Samson leans forward and shows his back through the open flap in the hospital gown, giving Clint a look at the oriental guardians staring fiercely back at him.

There were two foo dogs, each starting at the shoulder blade and going down to about his mid back. Each dog took up a side of Samson's back, the left side dark like night, and the right fiery like the day. Both had a paw up, resting it on a rock. The foo dogs themselves were a dark bronze color and were frozen in a permanent snarl. On the left, water flowed beneath the dog and cherry blossoms blew in the wind behind it. On the right, the sun burned above it and the ground was a fiery yellow, as if flames were rising from the earth.

Perhaps the most striking feature of the tattoos to Clint was the amount of scarring under the ink. Being a man who had experienced terrible things as well, Clint knew not to ask about the scars. "Our first mission is coming soon." Clint says, breaking the silence that had fallen over the two.

"Yeah? Where they droppin us?" Samson asks, a small smile playing at his lips. It would be good to get out of the triskelion and actually do something productive again.

"Not sure yet. They'll probably tell us either today or tomorrow and then give us a week or two to heal and prepare. Trust me, you'll need that week. I've done my fair share of medical work-ups and they are not fun at all," Clint chuckles, trying to make conversation.

Samson merely shrugs and hints at a smile, "Maybe thats because you're a little bitch Barton." Samson jokes, dodging the piece of paper Clint throws at him. "Shut the fuck up Sammy. You and I both know that you have the pain tolerance of a child." Samson just smirks and puts his hands behind his head. "It's been too long Barton, you're thinking of pre-ISIS me. I'm pretty much a badass now."

Interrupting the banter between the two, Coulson walks into the small hospital room. "Whatchya got for us, Phil?" Clint says, turning to his older friend. "Who's Phil? His first name is Agent right?" Samson chuckles at his own joke despite the disapproving look that Coulson was giving him. "Believe it or not, You are not the first person to say that." Phil says impatiently, handing the file to Clint. "You've got two weeks. Make sure he doesn't screw up." Coulson says to Clint, ignoring the looks that Samson was shooting him. "We'll be ready Phil, don't worry about that." Clint reassures, flipping through the file as Coulson walks out of the room.

"So where we headed?" Samson asks again. Clint, wrapped up in the file, doesn't even look up to answer. "Ukraine. Just a simple smash and grab. Some scientist is in some deep shit with the Russian government and I guess SHIELD has a use for him somehow." Clint says dismissively. "Cool, I've never been to eastern Europe before. And from my experience, Russian troopers are no big deal. While I was with the Yakuza, I ran into them a few times and they didn't put up much of a fight."

Clint looks up from his file in surprise. "You think the KGB is no big deal?" He says, raising an eyebrow. "Never faced them. Kicked the Spetsnaz's ass though. Everyone makes a big deal about them but I don't see it." Samson says in a bored tone of voice. Clint just smiles to himself. "You're in for a surprise rook. KGB is a whole different ball game. They don't wear uniforms, they don't stick to one style, they are one of the more dangerous opponents out there. How's your Russian?" Clint asks, going back to reading the file. "Просто отлично," Samson replies, a smug expression on his face. "Impressive. How many languages do you know?" Samson thinks for a second before answering, "I'm fluent in five, reading, writing, all of it. I can speak another four fluently. I can speak marginally well in three more."

Clint nods quietly, 12 languages for a rookie was pretty good. "That's a relief, I thought I was going to have to be your translator the entire time." Samson rolls his eyes and strains against his restraints once again. "So what's this scientist's name?" Samson asks, giving up on pulling free of the bed. "Eric Selvig." Clint says grimly.

**Plot twist! 9 Chapters down! I'm not sure how long I will make this story but it will be a pretty decent length haha. Don't forget to review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I own only the plot and the OC's **

**Hello my faithful audience! College is extremely hectic so I sincerely apologize for how long the wait was! No one reviewed my last chapter so no shout outs for you! **

**As always, Thank you so much to my Beta, VBallet! **

**Enjoy!**

The air inside the cockpit is still as the two men sitting inside mentally prepare themselves for the mission that would soon commence. Samson sat back in his seat, his long legs stretching in front of him and his hair held back in a loose ponytail. His arms were crossed in front of his chest. Against SHIELD protocol, Samson had torn the sleeves off of his uniform so his massive, ink covered arms were exposed. It was as if he was daring his enemies to scar them. Clint was seated in the pilot's seat and was maneuvering the plane in for descent to the SHIELD outpost in Russia.

Once the plane touched down, Clint and Samson got up and quietly collected their gear. There was a palpable difference between the two agents. They were essentially polar opposites. Clint worked from a distance. Precision, agility, and stealth were his assets. Samson worked up close and personal. Brute strength, ferocity, and gaul were Samson. In a way, Samson and Natasha worked in similar fashions. Face to face with the enemy. But even Natasha worked differently than Samson. Natasha could hide in plain sight. She could be charming enough to get a reaction and yet the minute she chose, her mark would forget that she even existed. Samson's was quite the opposite. He was deployed to send a message. Don't fuck with SHIELD.

These differences were apparent in the way they moved and used equipment. Clint carefully and methodically checked his gear before carrying it off while Samson picked up the entire pile at once and walked into the base. Clint brought along his bow and arrows, two precision made 9mm pistols, and three long, thin knives. Samson was assigned an AA-12 automatic shotgun, his two .50 caliber pistols. He also got his pride and joy, a set of fingerless gloves with a special material along the knuckles that, when an electric current is passed through it, turns into a heavy, metallic alloy. Not only that, but with different commands from Samson's nervous system, the alloy can take the shape of his famous grizzly claws.

"Gentlemen. I hope the flight was pleasant." Coulson deadpans, walking into the room. "You two know the drill. In and out. Nothing extra. Clint, you're on overwatch. Samson, you're on the ground. This is your test. You'll be responsible for Dr. Selvig. God help you if you fail." Coulson mutters the last part under his breath before walking from the room.

Clint chuckles at the questioning look from Samson. "Selvig's best friend is Thor. As in the nordic God." Samson opens his mouth to say something but instead closes his mouth and shakes his head. "At this point, I don't know if you're screwing with me or not, but I honestly don't care. We'll get him out," he mutters, piling shotgun rounds into one of the magazines.

* * *

The car bumped along a back road in slums of Moscow. Clint and Samson were crammed into the back seat, their gear securely in their hands or strapped to their backs. The plan was simple. Clint would exit the car first, taking up position in one of the buildings across the street from the apartment where Dr. Selvig was being held. Samson would then get out and storm the building, fight his way to Selvig, then call a helicopter for extraction from the roof.

"Test, test." Clint whispered, testing out the comms. "Test confirmed." Samson replies, rolling his shoulders back as the adrenaline began to flow. The car slows to a stop in front of a four story apartment complex and Clint quickly gets out and discretely walks into the building. The vehicle pulls forward slowly, stopping a few houses away from the target building. "Good luck kid." Coulson calls from the driver seat as Samson jumps from the car and into a nearby alley.

"Hawkeye, give me a good route." Samson whispers. The buildings on Clint's side of the street were taller, giving him a better vantage point. "Your 10 o'clock. Back alley. Thirty yards and you're at the back entrance." Clint replies, watching Samson's movements closely with his sharp eyes.

Samson follows Clint's directions without question, knowing full well that his friend knew a much better way. "Stop, you're there Grizzly." Clint says, his bow drawn back, eyes scanning for targets. Samson stops at the door and presses an ear to the door, trying to listen for movement. "Watch the windows." Samson says with a smirk before raising his foot and slamming his heel into the door, breaking it off its hinges.

Clint lowers his high-tech goggles, giving him a view through the walls of the apartment. Samson's earpiece sends off high frequency pings to create a sonar image for Clint to use. "You got two around the corner Grizzly," Clint says unenthusiastically, though a part of him smirks, knowing this was Samson's first contact with non-SHIELD personnel since he got here.

As the two men round the corner, Samson flexes his fist, causing the gloves to form his brass knuckles. Samson charges the corner as soon as they come into view and slams the two men into the wall. The man closer to him pulls his gun but Samson pushes the barrel away from his body and brings his elbow down into the man's jaw, snapping his head to the side. Judging by the way his body slumps, the man was either dead or taking a really long nap.

Samson stands and reaches for his gun, but the second man recovers quickly and kicks the gun from Samson's hand. Samson spins with the momentum, squeezing his hand again, bringing his claws forward. Samson brings his left fist around, raking the claws down the man's cheek. Before the blood begins to flow, Samson brings his right fist down the man's chest. Right as the man hits the wall, blood pouring from his face and chest, Samson slashes his left fist across the man's throat.

Samson stalks away, breathing hard, blood dripping from his fists. A third man rounds the corner with his gun raised and firing. Samson jumps to the side and ducks under the first two shots. The narrow hallway limits his options so Samson sprints towards the KGB agent, dodging a third shot before launching a superman punch to the man's jaw.

"Has anyone ever told you how ugly you fight?" Clint deadpans. "Not from the ground they don't." Samson says, raising his automatic shotgun. If the entire neighborhood didn't already know he was here, they were about to find out. "Hawkeye let me know where he is so I know I won't shoot him by accident." Samson says, letting loose five rounds of buckshot into the wall in front of him. The thuds on the ground let Samson know his suspicions were correct about men being behind the wall.

"He's on the third floor. Fetch boy." Clint says, sending an arrow through the second floor window. Samson raises an eyebrow as a man tumbles down the stairs, an arrow through his neck. "Really? I thought this was my mission." Samson chuckles, stepping over the body. He sweeps the stairwell with his shotgun, checking for threats. Finding none, he sprints up the stairs to the third floor. "Two left." Clint says, scanning the windows.

Samson nods and walks quietly to the wall. Suddenly, four gunshots fly through the wall, sending brown, mildew laden flecks of wall into Samson's face. Samson dives down to the floor, cursing wildly. He raises his AA-12 and squeezes the trigger, firing round after round into the room. The wall was in tatters and threatened to fall over when Samson's clip was finally empty.

Before Samson is able to reload a tall, dark haired man comes around the corner, firing his AK-47 down at Samson. The one bullet finds its mark inside of Samsons shoulder joint. His left arm essentially paralyzed, Samson reaches behind his body and flings a knife at the mans chest. After the knife leaves his hand, Samson reaches down to wield one of his .50 caliber pistols. The man spins to avoid the knife but moves right into the path of two large caliber bullets, ripping his chest wide open, spattering blood everywhere.

Samson reloads his pistol and stands, his left arm hanging limp by his side. He walks down the hallway, sweeping right and left until coming to the last door in the hallway. Samson stands back, raises his arm, and kicks in the door. Dr. Eric Selvig is on the ground, and a man that looked vaguely familiar is standing above him, a pistol pointed at his head. "Well well well. So you're Shield's new retriever. You traded ISIS for SHIELD huh?"

**Aaaaaaaaaand it's a cliff hanger! Stay tuned! And don't forget to ****review!**


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